


Tant Bien Que Mal

by Phoebe_Hunter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Chris Has Feelings, Future Fic, Isaac Has Feelings, M/M, Paris - Freeform, Peter Meddles, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4652358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Hunter/pseuds/Phoebe_Hunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris arrives on Isaac’s doorstep at 3am with two bullet holes in his torso and a dirty, disheveled Peter Hale holding him upright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tant Bien Que Mal

**Author's Note:**

> This was the fic equivalent of an earworm and I couldn't focus on anything until I'd written it and posted it. It's a bit disjointed, but I kind of like it. 
> 
> Title means "as well as badly", which is a French proverb used to describe things that have only been partly successful.

Chris arrives on Isaac’s doorstep at 3am with two bullet holes in his torso and a dirty, disheveled Peter Hale holding him upright. Chris drips blood all over the kitchen floor while Isaac fossicks through his first aid kit for bandages and disinfectant.

“Isaac,” Chris manages. He passes out, then, and Peter scoops him up and deposits him on Isaac’s kitchen bench, sweeping aside the fruitbowl and a stack of newspapers. The blood on Peter’s hands turns from black to red as Isaac flicks the light on. There’s a lot of it.

“It’s not all his,” Peter explains. He washes his hands in the kitchen sink and dries them absently on a tea towel as Isaac tears Chris’ shirt off. 

Peter watches through hooded eyes as Isaac extracts the first bullet and stitches up the rents across Chris’ collarbone. “Very neat,” is his only comment.

“Thanks for the feedback.”

-

They’re laying low for a few days, or at least that’s what Peter tells Isaac, and the morning turns into a blur of phone calls in between suturing and stitching, whispered explanations as he tries to build bridges and smooth ruffled fur. Midday trickles into the afternoon and by the time Isaac gets home he can feel the exhaustion scratching at the corners of his mind. The full moon is close, too, setting him on edge.

He walks into his room to find Peter brushing the sweat-stained hair back from Chris’ forehead. There’s a tenderness, there; a familiarity of touch that sends something shivering through Isaac’s stomach.

Peter doesn’t miss his interest, because Peter never misses anything.

“He’s awake,” Peter says, and lets his hand rest on Chris’ shoulder for just a beat longer.

Isaac quirks an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

“Hello, Isaac,” Chris says from the bed.

It shouldn’t feel like coming home, but it does.

-

“You’re a doctor, then,” Peter says, thumbing through one of Isaac’s old textbooks.

“Yes.” Isaac still doesn’t know what to make of this iteration of Peter Hale.

“Mmm,” Peter murmurs, and Isaac doesn’t rise to the bait.

“No pack here, then” Peter observes, letting the book thump back onto the coffee table.

“No.”

“Interesting.”

“Not really,” Isaac says, and lets the door slam behind him.

-

Two days becomes two weeks, and Chris spends half his time on the phone snapping at people in different languages. Peter spends most of his time at the café on the corner, drinking coffee and watching the passers-by. His French is extremely colloquial and almost as fluent as Chris’.

“What are you going to do with him?” Isaac asks Chris one morning, stripping off his scrubs. Chris has given him bits of an explanation – Kate, Valack, Deaton – but Isaac still can’t quite fit all the pieces together.

“I don’t know.” Chris hands Isaac a cup of coffee.

Their fingers brush as Isaac takes the mug.

“A puppy would have been less trouble. If you needed something to nurture.” Isaac observes, as they watch Peter flirt outrageously with a waitress thought the kitchen window, cracked open against the heat of the oven.

Chris smiles. “Old debts,” he says.

Isaac’s not sure what he means.

-

Isaac doesn’t mean to overhear (although perhaps Peter means him to), but he catches the words as he turns the shower off and the rush of the water is abruptly muted. Peter and Chris are in the next room, and maybe it’s the lowered voices that snag his attention.

“You left him here because you thought you might fuck him.” Peter’s voice is soft, intimate.

“He’s young enough to be my son.” Chris sounds tired, more than anything.

Peter chuckles. “That’s not an answer, Christopher.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

-

The awareness of Chris is an old friend; Isaac’s made peace, at least mostly, with that particular attraction. Teased it out and examined it from every angle. It never felt _wrong,_ not the way it probably should have.

The time apart had blunted the edge of it, but having Chris around sharpens it again.

He walks in on Chris in the shower by accident, distracted by twelve hours of blood and bone, and the warbling of the jazz record Peter has on in the kitchen. The steam hits him like a blow and then his eyes are on Chris’ wet body, tracking every scar on Chris’ torso.

And maybe he wants Chris in a different way, now, in a way that’s less about need and home and safety.

He’s not sure why he wants Peter.

-

There’s barely room for both Peter and Isaac on the balcony. They both watch Chris’ approaching figure. He walks with his old utility of movement now, his stride even. He tells Isaac they’ll be gone soon – a couple of days at most – and Isaac’s been careful not to turn that over too much in his mind.

“Do you still want him?” Peter asks, casually, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Isaac listens to his own heartbeat – _one two three_ – before he speaks. “I thought you had all the answers,” he says, aware that it’s not a denial.

Peter’s lips curve into a smile.

“You know, Isaac, you need to get better at asking for what you want.”

“I can’t imagine you’ve ever had that problem,” Isaac says.

Peter grins.

-

Isaac comes home and he can smell them both; smell the sweat and the sex and the anger. He knows exactly where they fucked – on the couch, on the floor, in the shower – and even though Chris’ hair is damp and he’s changed his clothes Isaac can smell Peter on Chris’ skin like cologne.

Some of the tension between Peter and Chris is gone, but something else is there; something stretched tight and raw that crackles as they move around one another in the kitchen.

The flat is too small for all three them.

Isaac goes out. He looks for a distraction and finds one. But can’t quite go home with her, though she smells like lust and spring.

 _You need to get better at asking for what you want._   

-

Peter is alone in the flat when Isaac gets home.

“Proved your point?” Isaac asks, putting the kettle on. The ritual soothes him.

“What point would that be?” Peter has his boots on the table again, the top three buttons of his shirt undone.

“I don’t know. That you can still get it up?”

Peter is impossible to bait. At least not like this. He just smiles and stretches, his shirt riding up to show the taut muscles of his belly. “I’ll take chamomile,” he says.

-

Peter pushes Isaac against the door and Isaac doesn’t want to stop him, though he knows he should. He’s tired. Too tired, wound too tight, and Peter’s hands are hard and sure and there’s none of the gentleness that might make Isaac flinch, might make him change his mind.

 Peter’s mouth is on Isaac’s throat and Isaac is arching and whimpering as Peter’s hands slide under Isaac’s shirt.

“How long has it been?” Peter asks against Isaac’s ear, and Isaac can almost taste his amusement.

“None of your business,” Isaac breathes.

Peter traces a nail down Isaac’s bare chest. “Beautiful,” he says, voice soft. His fingers brush the side of Isaac’s throat. “He wants you so badly, you know.” His lips follow his touch.

And part of Isaac wants to push Peter away, then, but when Peter asks _do you want this?_ Isaac says _yes_ and it’s the truth, though it’s not the whole answer.

-

“He’s young enough to be _your_ son,” Chris hisses, and Isaac hesitates with a hand halfway to the doorknob.

Peter laughs. “Honestly, Chris, he’s not a schoolboy any more.”

“He’s half your age! And you have no idea...”

Peter cuts him off. “You’re the only blushing virgin I’ve ever fucked, you know that.” Peter’s voice is teasing, but there’s darkness in it that makes Isaac’s stomach flip.

He forgets, sometimes, who Peter is.

Ice clinks; someone’s drinking scotch.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Chris says.

Isaac’s not paying attention; doesn’t realise what’s happening until Peter has the door open and Isaac’s looking straight at Chris, one hand still half-raised for the doorknob.

“I’m going out,” Peter says, leaving Isaac in the doorway and Chris in the kitchen, ten paces apart.  

-

 “I want you,” Isaac says, and he’s never seen Chris look so naked. “But you know that.”

“Isaac...” Chris begins.

“If you don’t...it’s all right,” Isaac says, and he manages to keep his voice steady though his hands are shaking.

“It’s not that,” Chris says, and Allison steps between them, as surely as if she were still alive and breathing.

“I get it.” Isaac crosses the kitchen and leans against the sink, looking out the window to the street below. “But I wanted to say it.”

Chris’ hand closes on his shoulder.

“Isaac,” Chris says again, and Isaac turns into his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, his face in the crook of Chris’ neck. It’s the first time they’ve embraced since the night Allison died, and Isaac can smell salt now as surely as he could then.

He only means to pull away, maybe kiss Chris on the cheek – a farewell, a thankyou, but his mouth finds Chris’ and they’re kissing, hard and long, with Chris’ fingers in Isaac’s hair and Isaac’s hands on Chris’ waist, kissing in a kitchen that still smells of Chris’ blood as the streetlights begin to flicker out and dawn creeps across the tiles.

-

Chris is gone by the time Isaac wakes. 

Peter is barefoot on the balcony, smoking again.

“Good morning, Isaac,” Peter says.

Isaac snags the cigarette from between Peter’s fingers and takes a drag. He leans forward against the railing, and feels Peter’s eyes settle on the nape of his neck. He lets the cigarette fall, tumbling end over end down to the cobbled street below.

“House rule: no smoking,” he says.

Peter just smiles.  

 


End file.
